


Finish It Off Right

by plastics



Category: Fifty Grand - Ernest Hemingway
Genre: 1920s, Character with injured hands requires assistance (which turns sexual), Infidelity, M/M, Sexual Content, Sports Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28851249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/pseuds/plastics
Summary: Doyle sees Jack back to their hotel room after the match.
Relationships: Jack Britton/Jerry Doyle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Bulletproof 20/21





	Finish It Off Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



After the fight, Doyle followed Jack back to the hotel with the double beds. The adrenaline didn’t last too long outside the ring anymore, not even after wins, let alone whatever that night was. They were getting old. Drying up. Jack walked slow through the lobby, then down the hallway to Room 412.

There he stood a moment before announcing, “My hands.”

“Oh, Christ,” Doyle said. He stepped closer and flipped open Jack’s overcoat. It only took a moment to locate the key and open the door. The room had been overtaken by a dry heat that Doyle’d either ignored or adapted to the night before, but now it was making him sweat. He greatly wished for a shower.

But his friend was slow-moving behind him, then winced as he sunk down onto the bed. Jack had never been one to hide his misery. Not soft, but not discrete, either.

“Can I get you anything, Jack?” Doyle asked.

“I just want to get some sleep.”

He didn’t move. Doyle glances at his hands again. They’d mostly scabbed up but were still red and swollen. His own throbbed in sympathy. His whole body ached in sympathy.

“Well,” Doyle said, “we should probably get you out of those clothes.”

Jack was dressed all respectably, and it took some time to shrug off or unbutton all the layers. As Doyle pulled free his dress shirt, Jack asked, “How much did you put on Walcott?”

Doyle didn’t respond at first. He could feel the heat of Jack’s body against his fingers. Finally he said, “Couldn’t bring myself to.”

“Damn you, Jerry. I told you it’d be free money. Could’ve gotten that wife of yours something nice before you went home,” Jack said. His words were harsh and provoking but had little energy behind them.

“I get her plenty of nice things.”

“Could’ve gotten her more. Hell, maybe I’ll send you home with something, just as long as you tell her it's from me.”

“And I’m sure your wife would appreciate that.”

“I do plenty that she doesn’t appreciate.”

Doyle’s hands hesitated for a moment, but only a moment. He had seen it all less than two hours ago but by the time Jack was lifting his hips with a hiss and Doyle was tossing his trousers to the side, he found that he couldn’t stop. Jack was allowing. Already the pink from before was blooming purple across his chest—his face, too, by Doyle could hardly look at him in times like those—and Doyle let his fingers drift over the hot stains. Doyle was not a gentle man but he was capable of some amount of care.

“You really think you’re going to get that money? Can't imagine Steinfield and his friends aren’t too thrilled,” Doyle said. Talking shop was always easier, even though Jack mostly hated it.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Jack said. “I didn’t agree to anything with them. My man is straight.”

“Their sort don’t always care whether their business partners are agreeable. Or so I’ve heard.” Jack hissed as Doyle fit a hand around his cock. It took some coaxing but not so much as to be embarrassing, then Doyle took Jack into his mouth. Jack let out another grunt then fell silent. His hands stayed on the mattress, stiff and swollen. The radiator kept rumbling despite the already excessive heat. They’d have to crack a window to get any sleep.

Doyle took Jack deep into his mouth when the time came, then shifted uncomfortably. “Alright,” Jack said, before slowly rolling onto his stomach.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m beaten, not dying.”

“Okay, then.” 

Doyle stood again and dealt with his own trousers. The space between Jack’s thighs was exquisite, and from the back it was easy to ignore the bruises, to the point Doyle even tried to lean down and press them together, rolling muscular back to chest. Jack let out a high hurt note, so Doyle leaned back on his hands and redoubled his efforts to get this over with.

Afterward, he asked, “Are you planning to take another shower.”

“Not if you paid me,” Jack said. “You could find me a towel, though.”

“Alright.”

Doyle found the towel then went for his own shower. When he came back to the room, Jack was supine on the bed but still on top of the blankets. He asked, “Do you mind if I open a window?”

“Fine by me,” Jack replied.

There were nights before where the second bed went unused—the night before, in fact—but the room really was overheated and Jack wasn't the best sleeping partner even without the pain, so Doyle pulled back the covers and settled in the night. He still lied on his stomach, although his back never much cared for it in the morning.


End file.
